


22 Northumberland St

by anyalevsyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Punklock, Teen Angst, Teenlock, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, i just really like leather jackets tbh, sorta - Freeform, tbh i dont even know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyalevsyou/pseuds/anyalevsyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on scholarship for rugby at a posh public school, John Watson is injured. His scholarship no longer available as he can't play, John is sent to his local school, where he meets the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been to every expensive, posh public school his parents could find, and, having been kicked out of every single one, his parents had given up on him and sent him to the local school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are in high school, and I'd say John is around seventeen and Sherlock is sixteen. This is my first attempt at teen!lock, so please please leave feedback. Also, its not Brit-picked, so if you happen to notice any of those pesky Americanisms, please point them out, however, I am taking some artistic liberty with the way British school systems work, so yeah.

John knew something was wrong immediately. It felt different. There was a loud crack. A horrible, sickening, deafening, crack. There was pain, awful, terrible, world-swallowing pain, but it was different from any other kind of pain he'd ever experienced. He could feel the cold, dewy grass under his face where it pressed into the ground. He lay there, vaguely aware of the entire team, including his coach running around and talking frantically. He felt himself being picked up, and almost cried out, both because of the pain, and because he missed the cool relief he got from the grass.

 

...

 

Bright lights and even brighter noises pulled John from sleep. He opened his eyes, then quickly closed them again, cursing. The lights were too bright, they were blinding him. He squinted, getting used to it. He heard people talking and shouting and machines beeping and creaking.  _Where am I?_ Opening his eyes with slightly more success than before, John looked around and realized that he was in the hospital.

"Hi, champ, how are you feeling?" John looked up to see the smiling face of his father. John's lips twitched in an attempt to smile back.

"Dad. I don't really know yet. Where's Mum?" His voice came out in a croak. A flash of pain crossed Mr. Watson's features.

"Sh-she couldn't make it. She wishes he could, champ, she's just very tied up at work--she couldn't leave. She sends her love." In pictures, John and his father look so much alike, they could be the same person. Those days were gone long before John could ever remember. Living with the woman who called herself his mother had robbed Mr. Watson of any youth that he had. His soft blonde hair was once thick and shiny, but time and stress had turned it dull and wispy, shot with strands of grey. His eyebrows were perpetually compressed to the center of his forehead in worry. The lines around his mouth and eyes were etched deep like knife marks. It was for him that he ignored the pain that was steadily throbbing everywhere in his body despite the pain meds, and smiled.

"That's ok. I'm glad you're here. What time is it?" His words were a little slurred from sleep and the meds they gave him, and his smile was probably less than brilliant, but Mr. Watson smiled a little brighter and his face relaxed a little bit.

"It's just after noon. You've been asleep for quite a while. Are you hungry? Harry just went to get some tea and biscuits, I can tell her to get some for you, if you want."

"No, that's ok, I don't think I cou"--

"Johnny! Dad, I told you to tell me when he wakes up!" John was interrupted by a very shrill and loud voice. He cringed as the noise pierced through the haze created by the drugs causing his head to give a particularly strong throb in disapproval.

"Harry, a little quieter, please. Your brother's not in very good condition right now," reprimanded Mr. Watson sternly. Harry's face instantly adopted a look of the sincerest, most remorseful and apologetic sorrow ever to be seen on a human face. Harry, at age fifteen was just recently discovering the art of sarcasm.

"Sorry Johnny," she said in a whisper that wasn't much quieter than her shout.

"Harry, can you go outside for a moment? There's something I need to talk to your bother about." Harry huffed and made an annoyed sound, but stomped outside. John looked questioningly at his father.

"Did the doctors tell you what's wrong with me? Is it bad?" John asked.

"John, they say you have a broken collarbone and a stress fracture on your shin. I know this is probably a bad time, but your coach was telling me that if you can't play, he can't keep you on the scholarship at Derby. I'm sorry, champ, I'll try to talk to your mother about paying for the school, but without the scholarship, it's very expensive, I just don't know if we'll be able to do it. I'm so sorry, John, I wish things weren't like this." John felt a hollow, sinking feeling in his stomach at his words. His father sat down in the small, uncomfortable looking chair beside his bed and took his hand. The feeling of his rough, large hands covering his own made tears prick at his eyes. He cleared his throat past the lump in it, nodding his head. He forced a small smile for his dad.

"That's ok, Dad. Our local school isn't bad. I'll go there, like we planned from the beginning. It's ok." Mr. Watson smiled tremulously, his eyes slightly shinier than normal. He gave his hand a quick kiss.

"You're so brave, Johnny. I love you so much. It'll be good to have you home again. Harry misses you. She pretends she doesn't, but I know she does." John nodded again. There it was. One of the biggest reasons he had went off to public school to begin with. Home. He knew he'd miss his school and the friends that he had made, but there was one thing that he would miss most of all. Being away from home. More specifically, being away from her. His mother. She never did anything to hurt them. She wasn't physically abusive. She was mentally, emotionally abusive. And there was also the drinking. She wasn't physically abusive. She didn't hit them, or rape them. No, her abuse was of a different kind, one that was almost worse. Having to be sent back to that was a thought that nearly killed John, but he couldn't break down in front of his dad. So he smiled bravely and shouldered on.

"It'll be good to be home. I've missed you and Harry." Neither one of them mentioned John's mother, though both were thinking about her. 

"You're probably tired. They gave you a lot of painkillers. I'll let you get some sleep. I'll be back in the morning, and I'll bring Harry around when school gets out," said his dad, standing.

"Ok, thanks, Dad. 'Night."

"Sweet dream, champ." As he left, he turned off the lights. Alone in the dark, John buried his face in the thin, hard pillow and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record, I have never broken my collarbone, or any other bone, so I googled it, bit idk how right it is...so if you have broken your collarbone and see that this isn't a single bit how it felt for you, please leave a comment or something so I can change it and make it accurate c:


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is going to his first day at his new school, and he doesn't really know what he expected, but Sherlock Holmes sure as hell wasn't it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm taking some artistic liberty with the British school systems, so yeah

John grit his teeth in frustration. Without the use of his left arm, brushing his hair had turned into an arduous task. And today of all days, his part had to be perfect. It was his first day at his new school.

"Johnny, come  _on!_ We're going to be late."

"I'm coming Harry, just one more minute," John said, just as he had been saying for the past ten minutes. Though he wanted to drive him and his sister to school, his parents had been adamant that he was not well enough to drive yet. Finally, John gave up on his hair, and trudged downstairs to the tiny kitchen, where his father was making breakfast.

"Have some cereal, John. And some toast. Its a big day," said Mr. Watson, setting down John's breakfast in front of him. John merely smiled uneasily in response, not trusting himself to open his mouth. He didn't think he had ever been this nervous in his life. He picked up his toast and put it in his dry mouth, the texture feeling like carpet. Just looking at the cereal made him feel sick.

"Hurry up, John, you're going to be late. What will people think--late on your first day. The teachers are going to hate you from the start." Came his mum's voice from the foyer. Leaving his unfinished breakfast on the table, John stood, grabbing his backpack. "You're wearing that?" she screeched upon seeing John. He looked down uncomfortably at his favorite jumper and jeans. He knew it wasn't his most fashionable outfit, but it was comfortable and it smelled of home, calming his nerves.

"I can go change if you want..." he said quietly. Mrs. Watson sighed gravely as though he was physically hurting her.

"No, we're going to be  _late._ If you want to look like a bum, it's up to you. Let's go, Harry's already in the car." John fought not to roll his eyes. He turned around and saw his father, still in the kitchen.

"See you tonight. Good luck, champ," he said from behind the stove, giving John an encouraging smile. John smiled back, his heart lifting just a little bit. He knew it would be a long car ride full of his mother making comments about how late they were ("what _did_ take you so long?"), and how he looked like a bum ("really, John is it that difficult to put on something _normal_?"), and how stupid he was to get hurt to begin with ("did you ever  _think_ about what this would do to me?") and every other fault that she could find with him this morning. However, at that moment, just for a moment, looking at his father's strong smile and his ears filled with words like "good luck" and "champ", John really didn't care.

 

...

 

 "Do you have a mobile I can borrow?" John turned around, startled by the sound. There was still eight minutes left before his last class of the day began, and John had considered himself to be alone in the chemistry lab.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, looking around to where the sound came from. A tall, thin, dark haired boy stood from behind one of the microscopes. Everything about him appeared dramatic. His wild, dark curls, and his pale porcelain skin, contrasting with a black leather jacket and dark jeans. There was a cigarette in between his fingers. John stared at it.

"A mobile, can I borrow one? Mine is broken," he repeated, annoyed.

"Right, sorry. Here," John quickly reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed the phone to him. "John Watson, by the way. I'm new here." The boy took the phone from John's hand with graceful, slender fingers stained with tobacco.

"Sherlock Holmes." John gaped.  _That explains the smoking,_ he thought.

"You're Sherlock Holmes? I used to go to the public school that you were at. They still tell stories about you," John said with a chuckle. He looked more closely at Sherlock, surprised to finally be meeting him. The boys at Derby had told so many tales about the boy, he was at once curious and slightly terrified.

"Oh is that so," Sherlock replied, disinterested. John simply nodded, seeing that it was a subject that he--understandably--did not want to discuss. "Which school was it?" Sherlock said abruptly.

"Hmm? Oh, Derby. Been to a lot of schools then, have you?" Sherlock smirked.

"I've been kicked out of so many public schools that my parents finally gave up on me and sent me to this place. Fifteen. I've been kicked out of fifteen schools in eleven years." Sherlock, still smirking, finally raised his eyes to meet John's, expecting to see disgust there. Or maybe pity. Instead, John began to laugh.

"Really? That's actually quite fantastic. I mean, you'd actually have to work hard to achieve that," John said, laughing. Sherlock's smirk lifted into something resembling a smile, but before he could respond, the bell rang, and the two of them quickly made their way to two open desks, both pleasantly surprised by their encounter.

 

...

 

 "So, how was school today, John?" Mr. Watson asked when he picked him up. John, just sliding into the car after waving good-bye to Sherlock, blushed slightly.

"Good. I met some people and I think I made a friend," John replied with a smile, thinking of Sherlock. He had been an amusing companion to have as he seemed to know everything there is to know about everything and made fun of all of it.

"Sherlock Holmes? The gay one?" put it Harry, smiling.

"Harry!" both John and his father reprimanded.

"Don't spread rumors," Mr. Watson said, "and even if he is gay, there's nothing wrong with that. There's no reason to make fun of him for it." John studiously avoided his father's eyes, working hard to keep his face blank. There were only four people who knew that John himself was gay, and they were himself, his father, and two ex-boyfriends. Telling his mother would probably get him disowned and telling Harry was a sure way for his mother to find out.

When they got home, John immediately went to his room, not wanting to look at his dad. As soon as he was alone in his room, he allowed a smile to split his face. He knew he shouldn't listen to Harry and her rumors, but he couldn't help it. When he met Sherlock earlier today, he couldn't help but admit that he had been attracted to him. However, he had learned to simply assume that all guys that he met, unless they told him otherwise, were straight.

"John? Can you come here for a moment?" John heard his dad call from the kitchen. Groaning, he stood from his bed and made his way down the stairs, preparing himself for what he had no doubt would be an awkward conversation. When he came downstairs, his dad motioned him to go out onto the porch with him, where they wouldn't be overheard.

"Dad I--"

"Shh, John let me talk. I don't know if this Sherlock Holmes character is gay or straight or anything else, and I don't really care. I'm not going to lecture you, you're old enough that you already know anything I could tell you. I'm just going to say one thing: be careful. I don't want to see you getting hurt." John nodded, thankful that his dad didn't give him a lecture on safe sex. He had received one of those from him before and it was not an experience that he wanted to repeat.

"Ok Dad, I will." Mr. Watson clapped his son on the shoulder with a smile before heading back inside. For a few moments, John simply stood on the porch before following his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have never broken a collarbone, or had a stress fracture, so I did the best I could with google and other people, but if something isn't right, please let me know so I can fix it.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John on a case for the first time.

John watched as Sherlock laughed freely, throwing his head back. It was a rare thing, this laugh. Only John could get it out of him, and even then it was a tricky thing. It was easier when they were alone. At school, Sherlock was the same cold, calculating machine he had been when John and he had met a few weeks back. The first time John had heard it was after their first case together, just a few days after they had first met in the chemistry lab.

 

...

 

_Tap tap tap._

John sat up in his bed, confused.

_Tap tap tap._

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood, his legs unsteady and hurting from the stress fractures.

_Tap tap tap._

Annoyed now, he limped to the window and looked out. He stared for a moment before rubbing his eyes again and pinching himself hard. Sherlock Holmes was standing in his back yard. Simply standing there, wearing that damn leather jacket and those scuffed up converse. At least he wasn't smoking on his lawn. He opened his window.

"What the  _hell_ are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?" He whispered out his window, not wanting to wake his family.

"Come outside, I need your help," Sherlock had replied, his voice deep and impressive in the quiet night. John, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, quickly pulled a jumper over his head so he wouldn't be meeting his friend dressed in only pants at two in the morning. Because of course he would be going outside to meet him. He was Sherlock Holmes. John had only just met the guy, yet he knew this wasn't somebody who you said no to.

"What do you want?" he asked when he reached him. Sherlock smirked at John's appearance.

"Get dressed and come back outside I need your help." John almost growled, not appreciating being woken up at two in the morning by this pompous bastard.

"Yes, I gathered  _that._ What do you need help with that can't wait until tomorrow? And why do you need  _me?"_

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." John gaped.

"Mrs.--who took your what? No, you know what, sod this. Sod this, I'm going back to bed. I'll see you in class tomorrow--or actually, later today." John turned to walk away, but was stopped by Sherlock, grabbing him by the arm.

"Come on, John, isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to do? Throw pebbles at your window at two in the morning?" John froze before turning back and seeing the amusement on Sherlock's face. He was joking. Only joking.

"You are not my boyfriend," John growled.

"Ok, fine," Sherlock conceded, still smiling, "but I really do need your help."  John sighed.

"What do you need my help with?" he asked, giving up.

"I have a case. Go get dressed, then come back down. I'll tell you about it on the way." Sherlock pulled his hand from John's arm and pulled out his mobile. John stared at it.

"I thought it was broken," he said. Sherlock sighed sharply.

"Right, and now it's not. Go get dressed. Unless you want to meet all of Scotland Yard wearing nothing but a jumper and pants. Not that I wouldn't admire the statement, I don't think it would give the impression that you would like them to have." John gaped, then chuckled.

"All of Scotland Yard?"

"Well, most of them, anyway. Now, go!" John, still chuckling turned to go get dressed. When he was alone in his room, he sat down on his bed in bemused amusement.  _Who the hell is this Sherlock Holmes character and how the hell did I get caught up with him?_ he thought. Then he stood and got dressed in jeans and a clean jumper, the process slightly hindered by his still sore shoulder. 

 

...

 

The case had been a fairly simple one, but it had involved a lot of running and John smiled at the memory of it. After the criminal was caught, they found themselves in a tiny coffee shop at 22 Northumberland St. at four in the morning. Though both of them had class in the morning, they had each ordered a coffee and sat down and talked. This was where John, after telling Sherlock that he should be the one paying for the coffees because he was the boyfriend, he had, after all, thrown pebbles at John' s window, Sherlock had laughed. John doubted that it had anything to do with his bad joke, but more to do with the adrenaline still pumping in their veins, but as he watched Sherlock's head fall back, and with it, his walls, John felt alive. And since then, he had been craving every case, every adventure with Sherlock Holmes, because the end of each one found them right where the first one had, at that tiny coffee shop at 22 Northumberland St.

"Freak." Sherlock bumped into John as a shoulder was shoved into his chest. Despite the protests screamed at him by his shoulder, John caught the both of them before they could fall. He grit his teeth, glaring at the receding back of Donovan and Anderson.

"I hate them," he said through his teeth.

"Don't, it's a wasted effort. We have more important things to think about," Sherlock replied. John looked at the taller boy.

"So it doesn't bother you at all?" Sherlock merely shrugged.

"Being bothered by it wouldn't change anything. Anything I do that could change it is too much effort and time to be worth it. They aren't worth it."

"But--but the things they call you. They say you're a fraud and a freak. How does that not bother you?"

"Why does it bother you so much? It's me they're talking about, why do you care?" John blushed, looking uncomfortable. He shrugged, not having an answer. During the past few weeks, the two of them had become such good friends, they were nearly inseparable. Despite this, the lingering question of Sherlock's sexual orientation had never been answered. John had tried to bring it up once with embarrassing results. He still blushed at the thought of Sherlock thinking he had been hitting on him. But the assumption hadn't been far off. John knew he would have been hitting on him hard enough to leave bruises if Sherlock wasn't so brilliant. If he wasn't so...unapproachable. And he was terrified that if he tried anything, it would ruin their friendship, and that was better than nothing. So John did nothing.

"Are you coming to my house today?" Sherlock asked as they walked to first period together. Their classes were right next to each other, but because John was a year older than Sherlock, the only class they had together was chemistry, which Sherlock took with the year above him because of his proficiency. John, startled, looked over to Sherlock.

"I--I don't know, am I supposed to be?"

"Yes."

"Well then, yes, I suppose I am, then," John said, slightly amused. It amazed him how quickly Sherlock had become such a big part of his life.

"Good," Sherlock replied nodding.

"What are you lads talking about over here?" Both boys turned to see Greg Lestrade, a tall boy who played rugby with John and an old acquaintance of Sherlock's.

"Lestrade," John greeted, while Sherlock merely grunted.

"Are you mates going to Sally Donovan's party this weekend?" Lestrade asked, grinning and adjusting his leather jacket that he swore he got before Sherlock ever did. "Mary's gonna be there, John. Remember that fit bird I was telling you about earlier?" Lestrade winked, elbowing John in the ribs. John chuckled uncomfortably.

"Mate, do you think Donovan would be caught dead with him at her party? And she doesn't hold me in much higher regard," he said, trying to ignore what Lestrade had said about the girl. He had no doubt that if he told him, he would see nothing wrong with the fact that John was gay, but for some reason, he hasn't been able to. Lestrade chuckled as well.

"Ah, you're right. It's a shame, mate. She's quite a catch, I'm gonna have to introduce the two of you eventually."

"I'm sure she is," replied John clearing his throat, thoroughly wishing the conversation to be over.

"Lestrade, leave." Both boys turned to look at Sherlock, who, absorbed in his phone, had been so quiet, they had almost forgotten he was there.

"I--what?"

"Leave." Looking slightly hurt, Lestrade walked away and instead began to talk to Molly, a smart, quiet girl, with whom Lestrade was good friends. John turned to Sherlock.

"That was rude, what did you do that for?" he asked.

"He was making you uncomfortable so I told him to leave," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. John, confused was about to question it, but he let it go. By now he had become used to Sherlock's deductions and he supposed he wasn't that difficult to read. Sherlock abruptly put his phone away. "Why aren't you going to Donovan's party this weekend?"

"Er--because I wasn't invited," John replied, confused. Sherlock sighed impatiently, glancing at the clock. He didn't care about being late, but John would get fussy.

"Why doesn't Donovan like you?" he asked. John looked at Sherlock.

"Because I hang out with you, I suppose. Who knows. Maybe she'd dislike me even if I didn't hang out with you. I don't care, I don't like her and I wouldn't go to her party even if I was invited. If only because I would have to spend the whole time talking to that girl Lestrade keeps trying to introduce me to." John quickly shut his mouth, hoping Sherlock would miss the comment about the girl Lestrade was going to introduce him to.

"Why would that be a problem?" He was Sherlock. Of course he wouldn't miss it. He didn't miss anything. "You've dated girls before, what's wrong with this one?" John sighed. He had dated girls before, mostly to convince his mum and friends that he was normal, but he rarely enjoyed it, and he especially wouldn't when all he could think about was a certain long-legged and wild-haired creature who would never, ever think of him like that. John opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the bell, signalling that he was late to class. Again. Because of Sherlock. Half angry and half relieved, John waved goodbye and ran off to class leaving Sherlock wondering what he was going to say, an unusual state for Sherlock to be in. Sherlock didn't wonder what people were going to say, he knew, he always knew ages before even they knew. Sherlock shook his head. It was John Watson. He didn't know what he was doing to him, but it was at once wonderful and terrifying and horrible.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly introduces the boys to her new boyfriend: Jim Moriarty.

"He was being unhelpful!" Sherlock yelled.

"That doesn't give you the right to say the things you did! Of course he was being unhelpful, his girlfriend had just been brutally murdered right before his eyes, Sherlock!" John yelled even louder in response, just to show him he could. Sherlock scoffed.

"Well that's too bad for him, if he helped me, maybe we would have been able to catch the murderer!" Sherlock yelled, even louder than John. John rolled his eyes, done with the childish game.

"We did catch the murderer, Sherlock," he said in a normal voice.

"Yes, but John it took us  _six hours._ That's six hours of my life that I could have been doing something productive, if he had just told us that the murderer was a female to begin with! How was I supposed to know?"

"I don't know, maybe use you're remarkable deductive reasoning skills? That's what you're known for, isn't it?" John said, shouting again.

"She was wearing shoes that would be perfectly acceptable on a man, and her footprint was large enough that it could have belonged to a man! My methods are deductive reasoning, John, not magic!" John threw his hands up in the air giving up. Fighting with Sherlock was pointless, and it would get them kicked out of the coffee shop. Again. He checked his watch.

"Class starts in a couple hours, I should get home and try to get  _some_ sleep," John said, standing. Sherlock nodded in agreement. He stood as well and hailed a cab, thinking hard. There was something about John Watson that he just couldn't explain. Sherlock angrily lit a cigarette and looked at the passing houses and streets. He hated not being able to explain something.

When he arrived home, he immediately made for the stairs to get to his room, needing to think.

"Sherlock, how lovely of you to make it home. I was beginning to worry." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft. I was on a case," he said giving his brother a dirty look, smirking as he noticed the extra seven pounds Mycroft had put on at uni. Mycroft, noticing the look, subtly pulled his suit jacket tighter closed around his stomach.

"My dear Sherlock, have you been smoking?" he asked. Sherlock immediately pulled his most innocent face.

"No," he said.

"Sherlock, I can smell it on you. If you're going to lie, at least do it convincingly." Sherlock rolled his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to get up to him bedroom and think about the anomaly that was John Watson. "Mummy was worried sick. You weren't answering your phone."

"Well of course I wasn't, I was on a case." Mycroft sighed deeply. "Mummy's boy," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Mycroft pretended he didn't hear it, but Sherlock noticed a slight tightening in his expression.

"Go wash up, and don't let her or Dad see you. You know how they hate it when you smoke. And for God's sake, Sherlock, get rid of that jacket!" Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hated leather jacket, Sherlock stuck his nose in the air and swept passed his older brother to the stairs.

Once in his room, he sat down on his bed and began to think. He didn't know what it was, but something about John Watson made him feel different. There was a way he reacted to people. It was the same way to all people. Except that John made him want to react a different way. It was strange and illogical and wonderful and terrible. Sherlock growled, running his fingers through his hair, wishing for an explanation. He wished he could ask somebody for help, but he couldn't imagine the embarrassment. The great Sherlock Holmes stumped by somebody as ordinary as John Watson. Because that was the problem. He was so perfectly ordinary. His very name screamed it. And yet, and yet he wasn't. He was special. Sherlock didn't understand it. Deciding he needed to collect more data, Sherlock stood to go take a shower.

 

...

 

John had just sat down at his and Sherlock's table for lunch when he heard his name being called. He turned to see who it was and saw Molly, a small mousy girl who usually sat with them both because she was too quiet to have any other friends and because she fancied Sherlock. John smiled and waved. He liked Molly. She was quiet and her sense of humor was just awful, but she was smart and nice and John enjoyed talking to her when Sherlock wasn't in the mood.

"I'd like to introduce both of you to my new boyfriend," she said, grinning. John nudged Sherlock's foot with his own under the table to get him to look up. Luckily, he did and even gave the boy a short smile.

"Hi, I'm John, and this is Sherlock," he said, knowing from experience that Sherlock wasn't one to introduce himself.

"Hi, I'm Jim. Oh, wow, Molly's told me so much about you. Sherlock Holmes, right? Molly says you work on cases with the Scotland Yard. Real ones, murders and the like. Is that true? Even though you're only a teenager?" John looked away trying hard not to burst into laughter. The poor boy looked ready to pee himself. Sherlock only spared him a glance when, in his excitement Jim had knocked over an empty plate right by Sherlock's elbow.

"Gay," Sherlock muttered, low enough that only Molly and John could hear.

"What?" she exclaimed. John gave Sherlock a hard look that he knew Sherlock hated, but he didn't repeat what he had said, so apparently it had worked.

"Well, I had best be off then, I have classes to get to," Jim said, looking awkward. John looked at him closer and realized that he did look slightly gay, but that was no reason for Sherlock to label him like that. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, looking at Sherlock expectantly. When he didn't even look up from his phone, John felt it was time to intervene.

"Yes, it was nice to meet you to," he said, giving poor Jim a smile. He looked disappointed, but gave Molly a kiss on the cheek and left.

"What did you mean?" Molly asked when he had left. "Why did you say that? Gay. He's not, we--we're together."

"With that degree of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffed.[  
](http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/sherlock/sherlock-holmes/)

"Because he uses a bit of product for his hair? Everybody puts product in their hair," John exclaimed.

"People wash their hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked, looking slightly alarmed.

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain." Molly took off, crying, while leaving Sherlock looking confused.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a filler chapter...sorry...I'm trying flesh out the characters their relationships more. The pace will pick up soon, I promise. Also, sorry it's been kind of a while since I've updated, I've been without my laptop for a while so yeah.

"Psst, John." John turned, looking around the crowded hallway for the source. Not seeing anybody, he shook his head, continuing to class.

"John! Right here, you dolt." Looking around once more, John suddenly saw a dark curl a the edge of a long, pale nose poking out from behind a closet door. He approached it cautiously.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing in there?" he asked.

"I need your help," Sherlock replied, not answering the question.

"With what?" John asked warily. Looking around furtively, Sherlock produced a large black bag from behind him. John took it apprehensively, reluctant to look in the bag. "Am I going to find a dead body in here, or something?" he asked, half-joking. Sherlock didn't reply, so he proceeded to open the bag and take a peek inside. What he saw made him gag. No, it wasn't a body. It was  _pieces_ of one. "Sherlock what the bloody hell is this?" Sherlock, still crouching in the closet made calming motions with his hands.

"Calm down, John. It's not what you think," he said frantically.

"I should bloody well hope not! Because I think you murdered somebody, cut the poor bloke into little pieces and are now trying to lure me into being your accomplice." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Stop being so melodramatic, John, and help me," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, casting a doubtful look at the bag. Sherlock smirked.

"Well, it's really simple, see, I need to get this bag to the kitchens to put it into the fridge"--

" _Why_ the  _bloody hell_ are you trying to do that? And what the bloody hell makes you think I'll help you with it?" John interrupted.

A few minutes later, John found himself trying to charm the irritable school chef, watching as Sherlock crept around her and sneaked into the fridge, carefully depositing the body parts behind a large bag of something faintly greenish that looked like nothing edible. Sherlock was right, the plan was simple enough, what John couldn't understand was why he had to do the charming. Sherlock, with his endless legs and the aura of a mysterious bad boy that followed everywhere that damn coat and those scuffed-up converse went, would be much better suited for this. Sherlock, when he really wanted something and put his mind to it, could charm a mother to give him her firstborn with just a few words. When John mentioned this, however, Sherlock had scoffed and said he could do no such thing.

"John! There you are, I've been looking all over for you! We have that project to finish," Sherlock said, coming up from behind John. The shorter boy turned and found himself much closer to Sherlock than he had thought he would be. A mildly sweaty and out of breath Sherlock, to be specific. He sucked in a breath, both startled and far more turned on than he should be. He quickly tried to refocus his attention from Sherlock's rapidly moving chest and his dark curls, in disarray, many of which were falling over his face and his throat moving with Sherlock's deep breathing, and his lips, parted slightly to allow the air in. God, John would leave so many love bites on that neck, there would be more bruise than neck. He could already imagine the deep colour those lips would be--and stretched around his--

No. Absolutely not. John deliberately looked away and redirected his thoughts away from those dangerous waters. Sherlock was his friend. His best friend, actually. They spent so much time running around London on cases, that between that, school work, and the occasional work out with the rugby team to strengthen and stretch out his shoulder, John had little time for anything else. Not that he minded. He wouldn't trade his time spent with Sherlock for anything. Much of it was spent on cases, yet there were those days when they had nothing to do so the whiled away the hours playing cluedo or watching bad telly. Or rather, Sherlock yelling at the telly and John watching him in a combination of annoyance and  adoration.

"We really have to go, John." John was jolted back to reality by a sharp jab in the ribs by Sherlock, whose elbows were quite pointy and sharp.

"Right, sorry," he said, walking away from a very confused looking chef, chortling with Sherlock.

"Good job, John. See, I told you that you could do it," Sherlock said after they were beyond her hearing distance. John shot him a dark look.

"She didn't stand there to talk to me because I was so terribly charming. I think she stood there because she was more confused and was trying to figure out what the hell I wanted. Or maybe she just hates her job so much that any distraction is welcome," John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, she didn't turn around and catch me, and that was the point of that, so whatever it is that you did, it worked."

"Hey guys!" Both boys turned to see Jim, Molly's boyfriend, hurrying to catch up to them. "Hi, remember me? Molly introduced us."

"Right, hi. Jim, was it?" John said, conversationally. Sherlock merely grunted and ignored him. Jim shot Sherlock a rather disappointed glance before turning to John with a sunny smile. John wondered how his and Molly's relationship was going when both members were so hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

"That's right. I was on your blog, John, and I read about your most recent case--fantastic, truly. Sherlock, you are wonderful at what you do." Again, Jim looked at Sherlock, hopefully waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, his face dropped almost comically.

"Right, well, Sherlock and I are going this way, so...see you around, Jim," John said wanting to get away from him. He didn't know why or what it was, but something about the guy just didn't sit right with him.

 

...

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

"Truth or dare?" John looked around the circle at the eager, smiling faces. Well, most of them were eager and smiling. Sherlock was sitting, eyeing everything with a mixture of pity, disgust, and arrogance. John still didn't know quite how he had managed to persuade him to come to the party with him. The party was Greg's, and he had begged John to come, and he eventually wore him down. John forced Sherlock to come with him, thinking that if was going to have to suffer through this hell, there should at least be one other person who was enjoying even less than he.

John's eyes paused when they reached Billy Murray, John's ex-boyfriend. The two had talked briefly when they had first seen each other, but John had been subtly avoiding him all night, not wanting people to ask questions about the two of them that they would have to lie about.

"Truth," John replied, looking away and towards Greg who licked his lips, thinking of something to ask John. John suddenly wished he had picked dare, but if were to back out now, everybody would know he had something to hide, and they wouldn't rest until they found out what it was.

"How far have you gone, and with whom?" Greg asked, grinning. There were a few appreciative chuckles and giggles around the circle. John felt his stomach clench, knowing he would have to lie. He was sweating slightly, but the room was dark, and everybody there had had quite a bit to drink and smoke, so John didn't think anybody would notice. He could feel Billy's eyes boring into him, but he didn't look at him.

"All the way, with Jeanette Matthews and with Sarah Sawyer," John said, still not looking at Billy. There were some more giggles and chuckles before someone else was asked something equally ridiculous and the conversation moved on. John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He could feel the weight of two gazes on him. One of them was Billy's. John looked up and saw Sherlock studying him. John's stomach dropped. Of course Sherlock would notice. The boy had been so quiet, John had forgotten that he was even there, but of course he would notice the sweat now collecting on John's upper lip and a slight tremor in his voice, no matter how slight it was, and no matter how loud the music was in the background.

Looking away, John threw himself back into the conversation, hoping Sherlock would just leave it alone.

Asking Sherlock Holmes to leave a curiosity alone, however, was like waving a whiskey under the nose of an alcoholic and hoping they don't take a sip.

 

...

 

"You know, if I hadn't seen them myself, I would think you had absolutely no balls at all, Watson." John froze. He was almost out the door, and considered just ignoring the comment, but people had heard it, and were now casting them curious looks. John turned to see Billy leaning against the wall, looking part smug, but mostly just angry.

"Billy, I told you at the beginning that I wasn't"--

"That you weren't what? Comfortable with dating a guy? You seemed mighty comfortable with it when I"--

"Billy, shut up," John said through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists, his stomach roiling with anger.

"Or what?" Billy mocked. "You'll beat me up? Whose gonna stitch you up and put you back together? Whose gonna play nurse for you and ice your bruises and wrap up your cuts? You think Sherlock Holmes the psychopath will do that for you? Who did you run to right after you broke your collarbone? Me, of course. I was always there for you. I did everything for you when you couldn't even get up out of bed because you said it hurt too much. And in return, you couldn't even gather the courage to tell your parents you were dating a guy. Are you that ashamed of it?" John un-clenched his fists, no longer angry. Because Billy was right. John wasn't sure how he would have survived if Billy hadn't always been there for him, and John didn't even have the strength to be proud of who he is. John was a coward.

"I'm sorry," he said as sincerely as he could, looking Billy in the eyes for the first time that night. John then turned towards the rest of his classmates at the party, who were watching the two boys with eyes the size of dinner platters. Some were grinning, obviously hoping for a fight. He found Greg's confused and concerned eyes. "I didn't finish answering your question, Greg. All the way with Billy Murray and James Sholto." Greg opened and closed his mouth many times before he found the words he was looking for.

"So, you're...?"

"Gay, yes," John supplied, but he wasn't looking at Greg. His eyes sought out his best friend, wanting to see his reaction. Sherlock was standing near him, watching the proceedings with a look of intense boredom on his face. John couldn't figure out what it meant. "Happy?" he asked Billy, who at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed. With that, John turned on his heel and walked to his car, hoping that Sherlock was following, because he was Sherlock's ride home, and John really didn't want to go back in there to get him.

Luckily, as John slid into the driver's side, he looked up to see the passenger's side door open, and Sherlock clamber in, folding his long limbs gracefully. John's breath caught in his throat. There was nothing Sherlock did that wasn't so graceful it looked like it was a choreographed part of a dance.

It drove John absolutely wild.

"Sherlock," John said, placing his hands on the steering wheel, but not starting the car.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied, impatiently, giving John a If You Don't Start Being Clever Right Now, We're Going To Have Problems look. Sherlock was very good at giving people that look. John looked up to meet his gaze.

"Well...I mean...Look, if you don't want to be my friend anymore, that's fine. I'll understand, and I won't be mad, I promise," John choked out. He looked away, waiting for a sigh of relief, and then the car door would open, and Sherlock would gracefully climb out of the car and out of John's life.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. And do hurry, I have an experiment, and the timing is most crucial. You see, I'm testing"--

"Wait," John interjected. "Sherlock, I'm gay. And by now, probably the whole school knows. People are going to talk. They'll probably say stuff about you, to." Sherlock scoffed.

"Your concern for my well-being is admirable, John, but in case you haven't noticed, I don't give a damn about what people think about me, and with whom they decide to share their opinions. Their lives are so dull and boring, I'm glad they at least found one commendable way to pass the time. As for you being gay...John you insult me. You've seen me work and have known me for quite some time now, and you still seem to be laboring under the impression that I wouldn't have deduced your sexual orientation long ago. Really, John."

John snorted, relieved, but trying not to show it.

"Only you would describe people talking about you behind your back as a 'commendable way to pass the time.'" The two of them chuckled for a moment before John started the car. The music that had been blasting from the speakers came on again at full blast, making both of them jump, but seconds later, they exchanged grins at the Metallica pouring from the speakers. John rolled down all the windows and pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator. The wind whipped through their hair as they yelled along with the music.

John kept sneaking peeks at Sherlock when he wasn't looking, so he could see him with his eyes closed, his curls alive and wild with the wind, letting go of all control in the music. Though he didn't know it, every time John turned away from him, Sherlock would glance at him, his blonde hair, usually combed so neatly, being ruffled by the wind, and his eyes bright and alive in a way that only rarely happened when they were running around like lunatics chasing down criminals.

 

...

 

Sherlock flopped himself down on his bed, burying his face in his favorite, softest pillow.Then he jumped up, remembering about his experiment. He wasn't lying to John when he said that the timing was most crucial. However, when he stood above his microscope and examined hours and hours of work, he suddenly lost interest. He had lost all interest in everything except for John.

He growled, running his fingers roughly through his hair. Normally, the action calmed him, helped him think. Now, however, even that simple action made him think of John, and how his hair had looked with the wind tossing it about. The image of John head-banging to the thumping beat of the music was an image that Sherlock wouldn't soon forget. He took off his leather jacket, suddenly feeling warm. He fumbled around for a cigarette and his lighter, before dropping both as if he were burned. All he could hear was John reprimanding him for smoking ("those will kill you, Sherlock"), and all he could see was John handing him the lighter. It was a gift from him, after he had seen the state of Sherlock's old lighter ("Sherlock, this is so worn out, I'm surprised it hasn't blown up yet!"). It was later found out that Sherlock's old lighter truly was broken to the point where it was dangerous to use.

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to be distracted from his very important experiment by  _sentiment._ He turned his attention back to the microscope and was relieved to find that he wasn't too late. He turned to prepare for the final stages, when he suddenly jumped away from his desk with a shout.

The beaker he was working with was frothing and overflowing, giving off small sparks that sprayed chemicals all over.

"Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit." It was all bloody John Watson's fault. If he hadn't distracted him with thoughts that most definitely did not belong in Sherlock's non-sentimental, logical mind. Thoughts of how John looked when he licked his lips. How he looked when he was really deep in thought, when his eyebrows were furrowed in _that_ way. How he looked in the middle of a chase, with his eyes bright and alive, his mouth grinning in a fierce way, and his face free from the pain of his collarbone and leg.

And despite when he had said to John in the car, he  _did_ care that John was gay, but just not for the reason that John had thought. Of course, Sherlock had made theories that John was gay, but until that night, all of those theories had gone untested, and therefore unproven.

Now that he knew for sure that John was attracted to men, he didn't know if he could control himself. Sherlock stood from his desk, giving up. He would clean up the mess and restart the experiment tomorrow. At the moment, he had more pressing concerns.

Like the raging erection he had right now for a boy who was supposed to be his friend and colleague.

And who definitely wouldn't feel the same way about a mad, sociopathic arsehole, who was so wrong for John, who was everything good. He was brave, and kind, and loyal. Feeling selfish and guilty, Sherlock reached to undo his fly, his thoughts filling with images of John, wrapped up in his atrocious, awful, wonderful jumpers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a tough chapter to write. I'm sorry it took so long, I'll try to be better about that...I'm not to proud of this chapter, but I just wanted to put it out here, so it's not edited very well, so if you notice anything, please leave a comment, so I can fix it


	7. Chapter Seven

John sat at his desk, trying to listen. Truly, he  _was_ trying to listen. It was just so difficult when the chemistry teacher's voice was low, and soothing, the lights were dim, and John had gotten a grand total of three hours of sleep the night before. And if that wasn't enough, Sherlock was sitting in the desk right next to him, and he had done something different with his hair that made him look absolutely delicious.

It was all John could do not to simply reach over and run his hands through those curls.

He stifled a groan into his arms, folded beneath his head on the desk. He shouldn't be thinking about this. Sherlock was his friend. His  _best_ friend. John had made a promise with himself that he would keep it in his pants for the sake of that friendship.

But that didn't make this any easier.

"Mr. Watson!" the teacher barked. John's head shot off of his arms, his heart racing. "Since you appear to be so attentive to the class, perhaps you could repeat to all of us what I had just said." She crossed her arms, looking quite smug. John felt as if a pit had just formed in the bottom of his stomach and all of his innards were caving in on themselves. Suddenly, he felt something drop into his lap. He looked up to see Sherlock walking past his desk to get a tissue from the box in the front of the classroom. On the way there, he had dropped a small note into John's lap.

His heart fluttering, John unfolded it underneath his desk and flicked his eyes down quickly. He read from the note, glad that for once in his life, Sherlock had taken the time to write neatly enough that he could read it, instead of his usual chicken-scratch.

"Hm," his teacher sniffed, obviously disappointed. "Very good." John breathed out a sigh of relief, his stomach calming. He shot Sherlock a grateful glance who only smirked in response.

A few minutes later, the bell rang, and the class filed out of the classroom, talking loudly, and laughing, eager to be going home.

"Sherlock, you saved my life. Thank you, so much," John burst out, as soon as they had exited the classroom. Sherlock looked at him, smirking. John's breath caught in his throat. The fluorescent lights of the school, as a general rule, made everybody look washed out and tired and slightly sick. Of course Sherlock would find a way to make even those flatter him.

"You're welcome, John." The shorter boy looked away, working hard not to blush at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. There was something different about Sherlock today, and he couldn't put his finger down on what it was. They continued to walk through the crowded halls to the exit of the school.

"Sherlock Holmes," a voice drawled as they left the school building. Both boys turned around to see a tall blonde-haired boy leaning against the stone wall of the school. He had a look of cool confidence about him and when he walked slowly towards them, it was something more of a strut. John looked at Sherlock, wondering who he was.

"Victor Trevor," Sherlock replied, without looking at John. His voice was completely indifferent, and to other people his face probably looked the same, but John saw tension in his jaw and a very slight crease in between his eyebrows that only got there when he was either thinking very hard, or when he was agitated.

"Whose your little friend?" Victor Trevor asked, running his gaze up and down John contemptuously. John grit his teeth.

"John Watson," he said, sticking his hand out. He could speak for himself. Trevor took John's outstretched hand, looking slightly amused, as if he had just watched a puppy perform an especially impressive trick.

"Well I have to say, Holmes, he doesn't look like the people you usually waste your time with." The tension in Sherlock's jaw increased just the tiniest bit.

"That's because he isn't. And I don't waste my time with those people anymore. I'm done." Victor gave Sherlock a long, measured look.

"I know you are. You fulfilled my end of the bargain, now it's time for me to do the same."

"No," Sherlock said, his voice still emotionless. "I don't need you anymore."

"Okay, can someone  _please_ explain to me what the hell is going on?" John asked, looking from one tall boy to the other. Victor smirked slightly before turning on his heel and walking away. Sherlock watched him walk away with a strange expression on his face. "Sherlock?"

"I have to go, John." John was left standing in front of the school, wondering who the hell this Victor guy was and what he was doing there. After a moment, he shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He made his way to his car, still thinking about Victor Trevor. He disturbed him. There was something about him. Maybe it was his easy confidence. Or his height. Or possibly the fact that he appeared to be, or at one time had been, a friend of Sherlock's. After so long of being Sherlock's only close friend, John wasn't sure he was willing to share the title. Certainly not with someone so...attractive.

Yes, John was slightly ashamed to admit that he was jealous of this stranger. He was tall and attractive, and mysterious, and when he stood by Sherlock, he looked like he fit there. He knew he shouldn't be so possessive. Mostly because he didn't  _possess_ anything. Sherlock wasn't his, never was, and never will be. They were just friends, and Sherlock was allowed to hang out with whomever he wanted, and John wouldn't be bothered by it.

But John was an awful liar even to himself. Hanging out with Sherlock, he had gotten better, but still not nearly good enough to convince himself that Victor Trevor, though they had only just met, bothered him.

John got out of his car, and entered his house, relieved to see the house was empty. His parents were at work and Harry was probably out somewhere. He quickly dropped his bag in his room, deciding that a shower would help him think clearly.

He turned the water on, and stepped in before the water had a chance to warm up, and ended up gasping as the cold water hit him as a result. He shivered for a few moments before the water heated up to a normal temperature. John applied soap, doing his best to direct his thoughts away from Sherlock. Yet, every time he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself that the hand currently roaming his chest was longer, thinner, and paler. Giving up with a groan, John picture Sherlock standing in front of him, dripping with water. He gave his a cock a tug, and imagined that it was Sherlock. He could almost feel the taller boy pressed up against him, whispering things in his ear. John couldn't hold back a moan when he thought of Sherlock's  _voice._

After that, it wasn't long before John came all over his fingers, feeling marginally more satisfied and significantly more guilty.

 

...

 

"John, isn't it?" asked a voice. John turned, closing his car door as he did so.

"It is," he replied, deciding that until he knew more about him, he would remain cautiously courteous to this Trevor character.

"You're a good friend of Sherlock's?" Trevor asked as they both began the walk from the parking lot to the school.

"I suppose. Why?" John looked at the other boy, wary. Trevor merely shrugged like it was nothing.

"Look, John, I think you're a pretty cool guy, so I'm going to be frank with you. Is Sherlock involved in anything...unsavory? Drugs, for example." John raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Aside from a nasty smoking habit that I'm trying to get him off of, nothing. Though he did tell me of his past...activities, he's been clean of everything besides tobacco for quite a while now. Any particular reason why you're asking?" Trevor smiled slightly.

"Sherlock and I were friends once, to. Well, I  _say_ friends, eh?" Trevor grinned and winked at John before elbowing him. John looked at him, confused. Trevor's grin faltered. "Wait the two of you aren't...?" His hands motions conveyed what he couldn't put into words.

"Er...no. We're just friends," John replied, slightly irritated. He sorely wished he could have answered that differently. "Were you and him...?" John reciprocated the hand motions. Trevor nodded, smiling.

"Pity. You're missing out, mate. Sherlock was probably the best I've ever had, of both mates and chicks." Trevor elbowed him again, and hearing the bell that signified that class would start in five minutes, gave a parting wave, and took off, leaving John standing in front of his school, his mind going wild. He entered the school and walked to his class, thinking hard. He couldn't help the wisp of hope that rose in him, despite how hard he tried to stamp it down. Just because Sherlock liked boys, didn't mean under any circumstances that he would like John.

But knowing that particular tidbit of information made it very hard to focus during his first period.

 

...

 

"So I talked to Victor Trevor today," John said. Sherlock froze, and John tried desperately not to look at his arse, but when he was bent over that way, it was so difficult not to. They were in the Holmes' kitchen, and Sherlock had bent down to dig some ice cream out of the freezer. "He asked about you." Sherlock slowly straightened, the ice cream jar in his hand forgotten. John plucked it from his grasp, and began to eat straight from the jar.

"What did he ask? What did you say?" John could see that Sherlock was feigning disinterest. John's eyebrows clashed in the middle of his forehead. Sherlock was normally a much better actor. Who was Victor Trevor and why did he make Sherlock act this way?

"He asked if you were still into drugs, and I told him that besides cigarettes, you're clean," John said, shrugging.

"What else?" Sherlock asked urgently, grabbing John's arm. John stopped, looking at the hand, suddenly feeling like the temperature of room had risen quite a bit.

"He asked if we were together, and I told him no." John replied shortly, stuffing a spoon-full of ice cream in his mouth so nothing else would come out. Like how much he wished that he could have said yes, they were together.

"That's it?"

"Well he also mentioned that the two of you had been together," John said after he had swallowed. "Do you mind telling me who he is?"

"He and I were together for quite some time, until he became uncomfortable with my...drug habit, so we made a deal. He and I were over, until I got clean. Then he would come back." John was slightly surprised. He hadn't thought Sherlock would say anything.

"So now you're clean, and he's back, right?" John asked, his heart sinking. Of course Sherlock would have someone else. The tendril of hope that had been warming John's heart all day suddenly vanished. But John was once again surprised when he saw Sherlock shake his head.

"That was a long time ago. I've gotten over Victor, and I don't need or want him anymore. He wasn't even the reason I got clean," Sherlock said. John held his breath.

"Then what is the reason you got clean?" he asked, but suddenly Sherlock was sidetracked by his phone that led to the boys running outside and Sherlock smiling bitterly as he watched John excitedly hail a cab, suitably distracted.

It was only hours later when John was laying, exhausted, in his bed that he remembered two things: first, that they had left the ice cream out, and was now probably a large, sticky puddle, and second, that Sherlock never answered his question.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor comes with John to hang out with his friends, and John learns some new things about his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so it's been like a year since I've updated last, because I kinda lost interest in it, but I've decided to try and pick it back up again. I'll try and update regularly from now on, but no promises.  
> Also, I'm American, and it's not brit-picked, so if you catch anything, please leave a comment and I'll do my best to fix it c:

"Hey, John," John heard behind him. He didn't even bother turning around; John was such a common name, he tended to ignore it when it was called in public. "Oi, Watson!" the voice continued. Raising his eyebrows, John turned to see Trevor hurrying towards him.

"Victor," he replied, slightly confused. He was going to a get-together with his friends at Mike's house, and he had opted to walk instead of driving. The weather was nice, and he wasn't in any particular rush.

"Hey mate. How's it going?" Trevor asked when he reached the shorter boy. John furrowed his eyebrows slightly. Since when had he and Trevor been "mates", and why did he give a damn about John's life?

"Pretty good. You?" he asked with trepidation, not really knowing what to expect. It had been a week since the two of them had been introduced and they hadn't talked at all besides the occasional, polite "hello." Trevor chuckled slightly and bumped his shoulder with his own.

"Relax, Watson, I just wanna talk." John threw him a suspicious glance, and Trevor laughed again, louder this time, throwing his arm casually around John's shoulder as if they had been best mates for years. John stiffened, fighting the instinct to shove the arm off of him.

"What about?" Trevor shrugged, the movement jostling the arm slung on John's shoulders.

"I don't know, but seeing as you're Sherlock's best mate, I think we should get to know each other more. I mean you've got to be something special if _Sherlock Holmes_ has taken in interest in you, eh?" Trevor chuckled again, giving John's shoulders a slight squeeze, seeming to think that he had just given the boy a huge complement. "Where is that nasty bugger anyway? Aren't the two of you like, joined at the hip or some shit?" John calmly shook Trevor's arm off his shoulders.

"No, we are not 'joined at the hip or some shit', we're just good friends, so we see each other often. He was pissing me off, so I left. I don't know where he is, probably at his house working on some god-awful experiment, locked in his room without eating, sleeping, or any normal human interaction apart from yelling at his brother and that damn skull," John replied, not meaning to get worked up again, but really. Sherlock was acting like such a royal _arse_. Trevor chuckled _again_ ( _does he ever stop laughing?_ John thought absently).

"I can see why he likes you. You're small, but you've got a lot of fire, doncha?" John bristled, but the taller boy continued without even noticing. "Still has that disgusting skull, doesn't he? Ha, I used to hide it from him, ya know? He'd always find within minutes, of course, but it was just so funny. The damn thing was like some fucked-up teddy bear for him, eh? Ah, Mycroft! I forgot about him. He's a funny one, eh? When I first started hanging out with Sherlock, the pretentious fucker met me in this fucking abandoned warehouse thing, right, like he was some fucking Bond villain or some shit. Tried to intimidate me." Victor threw his head back and laughed, and despite himself, John found himself laughing along. Trevor was crass and loud and obnoxious, and had an annoying habit of turning ordinary sentences into questions, but something about him made him engaging to talk to, and John was glad to finally have someone to talk about the Holmes brothers with.

"He did the same thing to me," John said. "He tried to bribe me to spy on Sherlock. Wanker, he is."

"You didn't take it, did you?" Trevor asked, chuckling. John shook his head, grinning at the memory.

"No, but you know what Sherlock said when I told him? He says, 'shame, we could have split it,'" John exclaimed, laughing, Trevor laughing along with him.

The two boys walked together the rest of the way, sharing insane stories about the Holmes brothers. Too soon, John stopped in front of Mike's front door. Feeling slightly awkward, John was about to wave goodbye, when he was suddenly struck with an impulse that was probably stupid.

"Wanna come with me? I'm just hanging out with some mates. They're pretty cool," John offered, partly to be polite, but mostly because he honestly enjoyed Trevor's company. Which was something he never thought would happen. Ever. Trevor's face lit up when John offered, and he nodded, grinning.

"Sure, thanks," he replied. John smiled back, hoping that Mike wouldn't mind. He turned and knocked on the door, hearing the muffled sounds of loud music and rowdy teenage boys through the painted wood.

The door swung open to reveal the smiling face Mike Stamford, whose broad smile faltered a bit when he saw that John had brought along company.

"Hey John! Who's your friend?" he asked.

"Mike, this is my friend Victor Trevor, I met him through Sherlock. Victor, this is my friend Mike. He and I are on the rugby team together." Mike smiled, opening the door to let them both in, looking at Victor curiously. Mike knew Sherlock, so he of course knew that Sherlock had very few friends. However, he led them into the basement, where a few boys were lounging on couches, a few were standing around the pool table, watching what looked like a pretty exciting game.

"Watson!" someone called. John looked around, his eyes finding Lestrade, sprawled out on an armchair with a beer in his hand. John walked over, motioning for Victor to follow.

"Hey Lestrade, I don't think you've met my friend, Victor. Victor, this Lestrade." Lestrade suddenly narrowed his eyes.

"Victor? That wouldn't be Victor Trevor, would it?" he asked. John's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah, do you guys know each other?" he asked, turning towards Victor. The tall blonde simply stood, looking uncomfortable, while Lestrade narrowed his eyes even more, sitting up a bit.

"I know of him yeah. This is the sonofabitch that left Sherlock when he needed him most. Do you have any idea what state you left him in? How much better he's gotten? Now, here you come, waltzing back into his life like nothing happened. Wanna know how I met Sherlock? My dad's a cop, so he picked him up off the street one night. He was lying in a gutter passed out. He had ODed. If he had been found minutes later than he had been, it would have been too late. My dad brought me in to ask me if I knew him. When he came to, wanna know the first words out of his mouth? 'Where's Victor?'" Greg stood up, his fists balled and face red. "The poor bugger needed you! And you fucking left! And now that he's healthy and clean again you want him back? Fuck off! Go crawl back into whatever dirty hole you crawled out of." Lestrade finished, glaring at Victor, breathing hard. John furrowed his eyebrows, looking at Victor questioningly, only a few seconds away from being as angry as Lestrade. Victor simply sighed, guilt clouding his handsome features. The other boys had gathered around, looking interested, while Mike stood to the side, ready to jump in if things got ugly. John winced, mentally apologizing to Mike for bringing Victor, and starting all this trouble.

"Look, believe me, I know what a dick move it must seem like, but you don't understand"--

"I don't understand?" Lestrade roared. "No, you're right! I don't understand! I don't understand how you could leave your boyfriend battling with a cocaine addiction at age fifteen!"

"Shh, Greg, let him finish," John said. What Victor did was awful, but John knew that there were two sides to every story. Lestrade shot him a glance of betrayal, which John ignored.

"Thanks John," Victor said, flashing him a grateful smile. John merely grunted, crossing his arms. Victor swallowed. " Okay, I know it was a shitty thing to do, but you have to understand, I was fifteen too! I was immature and stupid. And I tried to help him. Believe me, I tried. But at a certain point...well, how do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped? Sherlock didn't see his addiction as a problem, and he resented me for trying to make him see it as one. Again, I was young and vain and didn't want to see my boyfriend hate me. But I also didn't want to see him addicted to that shit. So I left. I didn't know what else to do. I realized some time after that my leaving was probably the worst decision I could have made, but I thought that me coming back would only be worse. You wouldn't believe the amount of times I almost visited him, only to turn back around. Once I spent six hours sitting in my car at the end of his street, just looking at his house, trying to decide if I should go in or not. _Six hours_." Lestrade grunted, looking unimpressed. John however, was torn. He sighed.

"I'm gonna go," Victor said quietly. "I'm sorry. For everything." He looked first at Lestrade, then at John. When neither gave any acknowledgement to him, he turned around a left. John sighed again.

"Greg-"

"Stop, John," Lestrade interrupted. John looked at him. "Don't start feeling bad for that fucker. You didn't see Sherlock before he got clean. He was a mess. A right mess. How anyone in their right mind could have left him alone like that, I don't know. He might feel bad about now, but that doesn't change anything. I don't care how many fucking hours he spent in front of Sherlock's house, it still won't be enough to make up for what he did to Sherlock."

"No, that's not what I was going to say. I wanted to ask you...do you know what caused...erm why Sherlock got clean? It's okay if you don't, it's just something Sherlock said earlier, got me wondering." Lestrade gave him a funny look.

"Of course I know why he got clean," he said, shifting slightly. John looked at him expectantly. Greg sighed impatiently, an action reminding John deeply of their mutual friend. "Come on, John. he got clean because...well--Christ, he's going to kill me for this, I mean really _kill_ me--but Sherlock got clean because of you, John. It was always for you."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah remember when i said i was gonna try and update more consistently?  
> Well, i'm a liar. A horrible, awful liar.

John stared at the ceiling of his room, thinking hard. He groaned and glanced a the clock beside his bed, staring at the glowing red numbers, watching as they ticked away the time, getting closer and closer to midnight. After Lestrade had told him that Sherlock had gotten clean because of him, John left, wanting to get home and think. He didn't know what it meant. Did it mean that Sherlock had feelings for him? John shook his head, pushing the thought away. Those type of thoughts were dangerous. John didn't want to assume anything.

Yet he couldn't help the small grin that pushed its way onto his face, or the feeling of excited happiness. Though John knew better than to assume anything when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he thought he could at least be sure that that wasn't something ordinary friends did for each other. After all, the threat of his boyfriend leaving wasn't enough to force Sherlock get clean, so what did that say about his feelings for John, whose mere presence was enough?

 

 

***

 

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft said entering his younger brother's bedroom. Sherlock barely spared him a glance from his microscope.

"Go away Mycroft," he said. Mycroft sighed, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

"I know--"

"Mycroft, I know Victor is back. I've talked to him briefly, and I'm okay. I wasn't lying when I said I was over him. I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock replied, then almost as an afterthought added, "especially not with _you._ "

"I just wanted to make sure you didn't slip back into...old habits." Sherlock glared at his older brother from underneath a lock of dark curls.

"I'm _clean,_ Mycroft. You don't have to keep checking on me," he said. Mycroft smirked slightly.

"Yes, and where is John, by the way?" he asked, widening his eyes innocently. Sherlock growled, not missing the hidden meaning behind the words.

"Get out!" he yelled, and Mycroft left, chuckling slightly. As soon as he left Sherlock groaned, flopping onto his bed, experiment forgotten. Mycroft knew nothing. It didn't matter who had caused Sherlock to finally accept that he had a problem and seek help. And it sure as hell didn't matter why he had let another person affect his life like that. The fact was that his feelings weren't reciprocated. Which logically made sense. Because what would smart, kind, wonderful John Watson with ridiculously bright blue eyes see in him? He was nobody. Nothing. Just a sociopath with rich parents and a powerful brother. Who also happened to be in love with his best friend, a person he had no business loving. Sherlock ran fingers through his hair in frustration.

 

 

***

 

Mycroft exited his brother's room sighing softly. He knew that Sherlock thought that he had only brought up John to be spiteful, but that was as far from the truth as possible. Sherlock knew nothing. For all that he saw, he was painfully blind. How could he not see how madly in love with him John really was? He would try to explain it to him, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't listen to him. He sighed again, pushing the matter from his mind. As much as would like to try and help the poor fools, there was nothing he could do, especially because he was so busy with the Korean elections coming up.

 

 

***

 

 

"John," Sherlock called down the hallway. John turned, his stomach squirming. He had been avoiding Sherlock all day, and of course Sherlock would notice. But after what Lestrade had told, John just couldn't face Sherlock again. He didn't know what to believe. He desperately wanted to think that Sherlock had gotten clean for him, but he knew that was unlikely. What would Sherlock see in him? Sherlock was a genius. A mad genius, but a genius all the same. And John was just ordinary. He was about as average as you could possibly get.

"Hi, Sherlock, how's it going?" he replied, struggling to act normal. Apparently it didn't work because when Sherlock approached him, there was a concerned look on his face. The taller boy took a deep breath.

"John, did I do something wrong? If I have offended you in any way...please let me know. I understand that I often say things without thinking, and I don't think I remember saying something, but as you well know, I rarely know--"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. Sherlock immediately ceased his agitated rambling. John didn't say anything, but smiled slightly. Of course Sherlock blamed himself. Of course he assumed that he had done something wrong. Of course he would think it was all his fault. "Sherlock, you didn't do anything wrong. Its just...I..." John floundered, trying to think of an explanation that didn't involve him admitting to his best friend that he loved him. Sherlock looked at him beseechingly, eyebrows creasing his forehead. John would have loved to reach out and smooth it out. And run his fingers those damn velvety curls...

John sternly trained his thoughts away from that dangerous territory.

"It's nothing, don't worry about it," John finally said, unable to think of anything on the spot. He was sure that in a few hours he would think of a million things he could have said in this moment. Sherlock's concerned expression increased. He was obviously worried about it.

"I have to go," John muttered, turning away, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, not letting him walk away. John could have kicked him.

"John, what's wrong? Please, tell me," Sherlock said. John sighed.

"Not here, Sherlock, okay? I'll tell you today after school, I promise." John mentally patted himself on the back. When in doubt, stall. He would definitely come up with something by tonight. Sherlock still looked a little concerned, but let go of his arm. John gave him a parting wave and went to class, puzzled. Why had Sherlock reacted so violently? Sherlock was often curious, but that wasn't Sherlock being curious. That was something else. John chewed his lip, concerned for his friend.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock slipped out of the school building, not able to sit through class right now. It had been a while since he had skipped class--John's influence, no doubt. After talking with his brother the night before, Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about Victor. Mycroft was right about one thing--seeing him brought back old memories. Old hurts. He could still remember when he had heard that Victor had left him. No matter how many times he had tried to delete it, it just kept coming back. Another reason sentiment was nothing but a disadvantage--it wouldn't delete properly like other memories would.

Victor leaving had the opposite effect that he had hoped it would. Instead of motivating Sherlock to try and get better, it had drove deeper into the hole. It gave him another reason to take a little more, a little more often. He had more things to forget.

But he was over that.

He was.

What he was not prepared for was John suddenly avoiding him. What was that about? Was John leaving him, to? Sherlock shivered in the cool air, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Oi, Sherlock! Aren't you supposed to be in class?" he heard. He looked up to see Letsrade leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. He was always claiming to be trying to quit but Sherlock rarely saw him outside of school without a cigarette either between his lips or his fingers.

"Aren't you?" he called back in reply. Lestrade gave a half grin, chuckling a bit. Sherlock walked towards him, unable to decide if he wanted to be alone or have company. Lestrade offered a cigarette, and he took one, mostly just to have something to do with his hands. He stopped needing them as much, now that John always scolded him when he smoked. The scolding he could deal with, but there was always this disappointed look in his eyes that Sherlock couldn't stand. Because John always saw him as so much better than he was, and he hated feeling like he had let him down. And that was the heart of the problem, really. John saw him so much better than he was, and the feeling was so unusual, and so much better than anything he had ever experienced. It was better than the high from the cocaine, better than the five minuet buzz from the cigarette, better than solving a case, better than anything. And Sherlock was addicted. Dangerously so.

The tall boy angrily flicked the ash from the end of cigarette.

He had never been good at dealing with addiction.

Lestrade chuckled looking at Sherlock.

"Who killed your puppy?" he asked. Sherlock glared at him, a stray curl falling over his face. Lestrade let the easy grin slide off his face, getting serious. "What's wrong, mate?" he asked, slightly worried. Sherlock considered leaving, but then paused with a sigh. If he left, Lestrade would go running to John and tell him that there was something wrong with him, and then John would worry and blame himself, and then Mycroft would find out and tell Mummy and Dad, and then they would worry, and Sherlock hated worrying his parents, especially about something as silly as...sentiment. Sherlock scrunched up his nose at the word.

"It's John," he said, looking down.

"What is it? What's wrong? He's okay, right?" Lestrade said, suddenly concerned. Sherlock waved a hand, nodding, trying not to feel jealous. That was ridiculous. John and Lestrade were friends, Lestrade was allowed to worry about him.

"He's fine...I just, I don't know. Never mind." Sherlock dropped the cigarette butt, crushing it with his foot and was about to leave, deciding that leaving this conversation was worth the resulting overreactions.

"Wait," Lestrade said. Sherlock stopping, surprising even himself. "Sherlock do you...like him?" Sherlock whipped around, giving Lestrade the answer he was hoping for. Lestrade grinned. "Mate--"

"No, don't you ' _mate_ ' me, Lestrade," Sherlock was cut off by the sound of Lestrade trying desperately and failing spectacularly to hold back a snort.

"I'm sorry, but out of context...'don't mate me,' sounds a bit like--"

Sherlock punched Lestrade square in the face, before walking away, promising himself he would never speak to anyone ever again. Anyone. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so not sorry.  
> so not sorry.  
> Anyway, please leave feedback, i would really like to know what you guys think.  
> also, come hang out with me on tumblr at alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this was a hard chapter. But I finally got it up! Yayy!  
> I'm not really proud of this, and I might go back and edit later, but I just wanted to get something out there, because it's been forever since I've updated.  
> So yeah, here it is! Enjoy!

The door to the tiny coffee shop swung open forcefully, the cheerful bells chiming. Sherlock didn't even spare it a glance. He was deep in his mind palace, thinking about John. Of course he was thinking about John. The boy had taken over Sherlock's mind, and he wasn't quite sure how. He didn't understand how he allowed this to happen again. Sherlock thought he had learned his lesson the first time he had let someone get close to him, but apparently he hadn't.

"Sherlock." At first he didn't respond, thinking the voice was just a figment of his imagination. He had been in John's room after all. Yet when his eyes opened to reveal a very cold, wet, and miserable-looking John. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. Water droplets were glistening on the tips of John's eyelashes, and his hair was ruffled in that way that Sherlock adored. His cheeks and nose were a delicious shade of red from the wind and the cold. Sherlock couldn't help but stare, taking care to add the image to John's room in the mind palace. _  
_

"Hello John," he said curtly, dropping his gaze. He and John hadn't talked in days, mostly because of Sherlock himself. Being around John used to be safe. With John, Sherlock never had to worry about acting normal, or being something he wasn't, because John understood. John understood _him._ However, he had started avoiding Sherlock, and he Sherlock didn't know  _why._ He didn't know what to do, so he simply avoided the other boy. He wasn't prepared to handle a situation like this one. If he had ever known what to do, he had deleted it long ago, deeming in unimportant. So he simply did what he knew how to do best: pushed him away.

John plopped in the armchair right next to Sherlock's, huffing out a breath. He looked over at Sherlock, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. John sighed sharply.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I was stupid and I don't really know how to explain why I avoided you, but I did, and it was stupid, and I'm sorry," John blurted out after a few moments.

"Why? Why did you avoid me? Was it something I did? Something I said?" John violently shook his head.

"No, no it was nothing like that, I promise. If it was something like that I would have told you, believe me."

"Then why, John?" John stopped, not knowing what to say. Sherlock would know if he didn't tell him the truth, but he couldn't tell him. He  _couldn't._ What would he say? "Yes, Sherlock, I avoided you because I fell deeply, madly in love with you, and something Lestrade said that may or may not actually be true made me think that there may or may not have been a small, hopeless chance that you felt the same way"? Yet he couldn't very well say nothing. He had tried it, and obviously it didn't work. He and Sherlock hadn't talked in days. John took a deep breath.

"Do you remember when I asked you why you got clean, and you avoided the question?" John waited until he got a sharp nod from Sherlock before continuing. "Well, I asked Lestrade, and he told--"

"John," Sherlock quickly interrupted, looking panicked. "John, wait, I-I can explain--"

"Shh, let me finish. Well, Lestrade told me something that I couldn't stop thinking about. Because how could I, simple, ordinary John Watson, cause someone as brilliant and fantastic as Sherlock Holmes to completely change his life in a way that nobody else could force him to do? And the more I thought about it, the more I realized two things. The first being how improbable it was that I am the reason for anything you do in your life. And the second being how much I wanted it to be true. How much I wanted to be as big an impact on your life as you have been on mine. I realized then, that the feelings I had for you were more than just random lust, because I'm gay and you're my best friend. It was far more than that. And that's why I avoided you. Because I couldn't face the fact of being near you and having to pretend that I don't feel the way I do. I couldn't face you, feeling the way I do, and having to look a you and know that you couldn't possibly feel the same way. So, no, Sherlock, it's not something you did, or something you said, but rather  _everything_ you did, and  _everything_ you said. Because everything about you made it harder and harder to ignore my feelings, and yet everything about you made it clearer and clearer that those feeling would have to stay ignored." John finished, taking another deep breath, and clenching his fists, realizing they were shaking. He stared at a stain on the carpet, not daring to look his friend in the face.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly. "John, look at me." John raised his eyes cautiously, expecting to see disgust and pity in his friend's face. Sherlock would stand up and sweep out of the coffee shop and join Victor, not looking back once. And why should he? Because who was John, after all? Just an ordinary bloke with an extraordinary best friend.

"I'm--I'm your...best friend?" Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. John snapped his head up. That was not what he was expecting.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course you are, Sherlock. Or at least...you were. I would understand, of course, if you no longer want to be friends with me," John replied, dropping his gaze again.

"An--And you--you like...me? More than a friend, I mean?" John slowly unclenched his fists, hardly daring to breathe. Because was it just him, or was there a hint of hope in Sherlock's voice?

"I...uh, yeah, Sherlock. Yeah, I do," he said. "And you don't have to say you like me back or anything, in fact you probably don't even like me back, but you asked for an explanation, and that's it, and I'm really sorry if this makes things awkward between us or anything, I just want us to stay--"

"John, shut up," Sherlock interrupted John's nervous babbling. John looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time. Sherlock was smiling. Smiling in that shy, uncertain way that only happened when he was smiling for real. John could count on one hand, the amount of times he had pulled that smile out of Sherlock. It was different from the dangerous, wild grin that appeared on cases, and different from the tight-lipped, smug smile that came from spouting a particularly nasty deduction about Donovan or Anderson.

"John...you know that I'm not good at...feelings. Particularly  _sentiment._ I-I'm not exactly sure how I feel...I know that I feel differently about you than I have ever felt about anyone before. I'm just...not exactly sure what that means yet, or how to...proceed. I'm sorry John, and I think that feel...the same way you do, but I don't know. I just don't know," Sherlock sighed harshly, running his fingers through his wild curls. He hadn't realized how hard this was going to be. "As a rule I don't...like...people. I don't like contact with them, physical or emotional, but John with you..." he trailed off when John placed a hand on his and squeezed gently.

"It's okay, Sherlock," he said softly, smiling. "I know who you are, and I like you because you're you, not despite the fact that you're you. Take any time you need and know that you can talk to me about anything. I might not be able to understand completely, but I'll listen and I'll do my best." Sherlock turned his hand over under John's and squeezed back, feeling slightly breathless. There was this feeling that was so beyond just the feeling of a hand in his. Because it was so beyond just a hand in his. It was John's hand in his.

Hesitantly, his heart pounding in his chest, Sherlock smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, this was a tough chapter, so please leave feedback, it's really helpful!  
> also, come hang out with me on tumblr, at alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been pretty sick for the past couple days with nothing to do besides drink tea and write. so i did both. a lot. so yeah, this chapter is longer than i originally planned, but hey, plans are made to be broken, amirite?

Sherlock glanced at the clock, and cursed, hastily shoving his violin back into its case, giving it a quick pat to apologize for his carelessness. He snagged his leather jacket from the floor where he had dumped it the night before. He normally didn't care about being late for school. In fact, he was late more often than not. But he was picking up John, and he got titchy about being late.

John.

Sherlock couldn't help the faint blush that crept onto his face just from thinking about him. He struggled to keep down a smile, but failed, causing Mycroft to give him a strange look as Sherlock dashed past him. Despite the fact that he was constantly running around London like a maniac, school was one place Sherlock never rushed to. And it sure as hell wasn't a place he went to with a smile on his face.

Mycroft nodded to himself, allowing himself a small smile as well. It seems as though at least one of them finally came to their senses. Good. John was a good influence on Sherlock. When he came home, he no longer smelled of smoke and London's worst and darkest alleyways, but more like cheap drug store deodorant and London's slightly better, though still dark and bad alleyways.

Sherlock leaped onto his motorbike, revving the engine a few times just to annoy Mycroft and wipe that annoying smirk off of his face. Sherlock had no doubt that his brother had already deduced everything about him and John and the way he was looking so damn  _smug_ about it, made him want to break it off immediately just to spite him. But that thought was discarded almost before it had fully formed. Nothing would keep Sherlock from John. Nothing.

 

 

***

 

 

John got dressed, happy to see that he was almost completely uninhibited by his collarbone. That among other things (the beautiful and amazing boy that was about to come pick him for school) caused a large grin to stretch his features. The grin that hadn't been able to completely leave his face since two days ago, when he spilled his feeling for Sherlock.

"Johnny, there somebody here for you," his father called from downstairs. John smiled even bigger, if that was possible, and almost ran downstairs in his eagerness to see Sherlock.

"Ugh, what is  _that?_ " Mrs. Watson screeched when she saw the motorbike Sherlock was proudly sitting on top of. When John joined her at the window, his breath caught in his throat. He had rarely seen Sherlock look so beautiful. His cheeks were flushed with the wind, and his curls were an absolute mess. His white t-shirt was a slightly lower v-neck than Sherlock usually wore, showing off his collarbone and creamy, pale skin. John wanted to kiss every inch of that skin.

From the expression on his mother's face, however, she didn't share his opinion. John ignored her, grabbed an apple from the counter, and rushed out the door with a parting wave to his parents.

"Hi, Sherlock," he said when he reached the roaring motorbike. John shoved the apple into his backpack and swung a leg over the seat sliding onto the bike right behind the taller boy. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's slim waist, mindful of his mother still watching from the window.

"Hey, John," Sherlock replied before backing out of the driveway and speeding off toward the school. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, John wrapped his arms more snugly around Sherlock, pressing his chest into his back. Sherlock's breath hitched. Sherlock had done quite a lot with Victor, but everything he ever did with him didn't amount to even a simple touch from John. It was ridiculous. He and John hadn't even kissed yet, and he still held an enormous amount of power over Sherlock. Ordinarily, that would absolutely terrify Sherlock, but John was far from ordinary. Sherlock smiled again, leaning back into John's warm, broad, jumper-covered chest.

When they arrived at school, John clambered off the bike, his hair in complete disarray. Sherlock grinned at the sight, loving how pink his cheeks got with the wind and how his eyes got a glint in them that suggested that there was more to this boy than jumpers and biology textbooks. John, seeing the look, stuck his tongue out.

"Don't laugh, you think my hair looks messy? Take a look at your own, Curly Sue,"  John said, trying in vain to flatten his hair back to its combed neatness. Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"What did you call me?" he asked, running his fingers through his dark hair in a halfhearted attempt to undo the knots in it. He gave up after a few seconds however, finding that he didn't really care. John giggled slightly, but didn't repeat the ridiculous nickname. The two boys made their way to the school, laughing and joking.

"Hey mates," Lestrade said, joining them.

"Hi, Greg. How're you doing?" John greeted with a grin. Lestrade smiled back, slightly puzzled, looking back and forth between the two grinning boys.

"What did the two of you eat for breakfast?" he asked, chuckling. John and Sherlock laughed, but didn't answer. Lestrade continued to look oddly at them for a moment before he let it go, far too used to the wild things John and Sherlock got up to to be too bothered by it.

 

 

***

 

 

_Come over after school -SH_

 

_sherlock, im in class, ill txt u later_

 

_also, ik its u, u dont have to sign ur initials_

 

_John, simply because we are texting, doesn't make it okay for you to write like you're an illiterate idiot.  -SH_

 

_So you'll come over, right? -SH_

 

_i have it on pretty good authority that i am an idiot_

 

_and yeah, i guess_

 

_now stop txting me, im in class!!_

 

_John, you and I both know that you are in health class, and aren't listening anyway. That class is useless. I could teach you more about health in 2 minutes, than that moron who calls himself a teacher  could in 2 years. -SH_

 

_And I said you were an idiot in comparison to me. In comparison with the rest of the world, you are actually quite intelligent. -SH_

 

_wow, a complement?! from sherlock holmes?! what has the world come to?!_

 

_Shut up. -SH_

 

_wait is mycroft going to be at ur house?_

 

_John, what is with your irrational fear of my brother? And no, he is not going to be home. -SH_

 

_its not irrational!! ur brother is terrifying!!_

 

_Don't be ridiculous, John -SH_

 

John, feeling quite petulant, didn't text back, but tuned back into the lesson, feeling that perhaps Sherlock was right about this class.

 

 

***

 

 

"John!" Sherlock called across the school parking lot from his motorbike. John, who was exiting the school building and talking to Molly, ignored him.

"So how are things going with Jim?" he asked. He didn't really care about their relationship, but he thought Molly might appreciate it. As he predicted, a large smile bloomed on her face.

"Really good," she replied. "He's such a gentleman." John smiled.

"That's really great, Molly. I'm really happy for you," he said, quite surprised to find that his words were genuine. He liked Molly quite a lot, and was glad to see that she seemed to have finally gotten over her crush on Sherlock.

"So, what about you? Anybody special?" she asked.

"John, hurry up!" Sherlock called loudly. John sighed, and acted annoyed, but was secretly glad to have an excuse not to answer Molly's question. Not because he thought she would mind, he just wasn't sure what to say about him and Sherlock. They acted differently around each other now, but hadn't talked about what their relationship was.

"I gotta go, Molly, sorry. See you tomorrow!" he said, walking quickly towards Sherlock who was impatiently revving the engine of his bike. John gave him an annoyed look, but it was lighthearted, and he didn't really mean it, and Sherlock knew it. John barely had time to jump onto the bike and wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist before they were speeding off. John furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why Sherlock was in such a hurry. The genius was always impatient, but he was especially so today, muttering angrily at red lights, and swerving around other cars with reckless abandon. John felt his heartbeat thundering in his chest as they took a particularly tight turn at a particularly high speed. He grinned, loving the speed, the danger, the smell of leather, and gasoline and  _Sherlock_ that assaulted his nose.

A loud laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Sherlock spared a quick glance behind him to see John's face and laughed as well.

All too soon, the ride was over, and Sherlock carefully maneuvered the large bike into the garage before cutting off the engine.

"What's the big hurry?" John asked, slightly breathless, as he clambered off the bike, his legs unsteady. As an answer, Sherlock took John's face in his own calloused hands, and gently pressed his lips onto John's. John let out a soft gasp before returning the kiss eagerly, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's messy hair. John parted his lips, and met Sherlock's tongue with his own with a small gasp. Kissing Sherlock was extraordinary, and no amount of imagination could have prepared him for what he was experiencing.

"Sherlock," he gasped, pulling back slightly until their noses were brushing, their lips less than inch away from each other. Sherlock gave a low whine and tried to capture John's lips with his own once more, but John pulled back reluctantly. "Sherlock, we're outside," he said, looking around. Sherlock sighed sharply, before grabbing John's hand and quickly dragging him inside. As soon as they made it through the door, Sherlock pressed John against the wall, and attacked his lips with his own once more. John grabbed Sherlock's hips, and pulled himself flush against the taller boy, so they were touching from chest to thigh. Sherlock couldn't help the small moan the escaped past his lips and was swallowed by John's. He ducked his head, licking and sucking his way down John's jaw, dragging his teeth lightly on a sensitive area of John's neck.

"Sherlock," John gasped, running his hands down Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, wait." Sherlock lifted his head slightly, glaring at John from under his messy curls.

"Sherlock, we need to stop," John said. Sherlock whined against John's neck.  _Stop? Now? When everything was going so well?_ "Sherlock please," John said, pushing at Sherlock's chest lightly.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, now slightly worried. It had been going well for him, but maybe John didn't feel the same way...

"Nothing," John said quickly, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. "Trust me Sherlock, nothing wrong. I just think we should take this...slower. I don't want all of this to happen at once." Sherlock glared some more.

"Why not? I'm okay with it. According to the erection that's currently pressed against my thigh, you're okay with it to. What's the problem?" John blushed, and pulled away slightly, so that said erection wasn't being pressed into Sherlock's thigh anymore.

"Sherlock, it's not that I'm not enjoying it--I am, very much so--it's that I found out you like me just a few days ago, and this was our first kiss, and I just think we should be taking this slower, is all. We have time, Sherlock," John reached up and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek, thumb rubbing over his damn cheekbone. Sherlock leaned into his hand slightly. He stuck his lower lip out petulantly, but nodded, seeing that John was probably right.

"Fine. Do you want any sweets? Mycroft just bought a box, and I want to finish all of them before he gets home so he doesn't get any," Sherlock said grinning wickedly. John bit his lip, looking unsure, so Sherlock sighed sharply in annoyance. "It's good for him, he's trying to lose weight anyway. He shouldn't be eating sweets. So really, by eating them, we'll be doing him a favor. In fact,  _not_ eating them would be almost cruel," Sherlock said wicked grin reappearing. John returned the grin.

"Well, when you put it that way, it would be most heartless of me to allow Mycroft to eat them by himself and not continue his diet." Sherlock's grin widened and he quickly clambered up the counter-top and stood on it, searching the top of the cupboards. John really did try not to watch his arse. He really did. But when it was so beautifully displayed in those tight pants, it was almost impossible. Sherlock shot John a knowing glance and wiggled his arse quite a bit more than was necessary. John cleared his throat.

"Er--Not that I'm not enjoying the view, but what are you doing?" he asked, cheeks turning hot and red.

"Mycroft hid the box up here, thinking I wouldn't find it," Sherlock replied with a quiet snort. "Fool." He gave a small crow of victory when he found it, and jumped down from the counter. Taking John's hand, he led them to the large living room. He flipped on the TV, finding one of those shows he knew John liked (Doctor What, or some such) and opened the box of sweets happily. When John sat down, Sherlock snuggled up close, burying his face in John's chest, snorting at the show. Really, "it's bigger on the inside"? This show was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. But John giggled and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, so it was bearable.

 

 

***

 

 

He watched on the street corner as John and Sherlock-- _his_ Sherlock--roared by. John's grip on Sherlock's waist was just a bit too tight to be platonic, and the glance Sherlock threw at John as they laughed together was far from just friendly.

Victor grit his teeth in frustration, as he glared. He quickly jumped into his car to follow them, a hard task, considering how fast Sherlock was going. Victor had a faint idea why Sherlock was so eager to get home, and the thought made him even more angry than before. Sherlock had promised. He had promised to always be there for him. He said he was different from everyone else in his life, because everyone else left. But Sherlock promised he would stay. Nobody knew Sherlock like he did. Nobody knew him back then, when they were just two broken boys running around London trying to find a way to piece it all together again. And they had never managed it, but they had come close. Together, they had come close.

But now Sherlock had  _John,_ and he didn't need Victor anymore. Victor, who had been there for him when he was at his lowest point. Victor, to whom Sherlock had gone to when he had no one else. Was replaced by  _John Watson,_ a nobody as ordinary as rain in London.

Victor's hands gripped the steering wheel when he saw them kissing in Sherlock's garage. He knew exactly what Sherlock tasted like after a fast ride on the motorbike. Like wind and freedom and laughter.

Victor growled slightly. Yes, he had left, and he regretted it more and more every day, but John had never been there to begin with. John hadn't been there to see all of the nervous breakdowns, all the over doses, both unintentional and intentional. John hadn't been there to see all the arguments and hadn't been there to comfort Sherlock after each one. How that bastard could forget everything that Victor had done for him, he didn't know.

He saw Sherlock pull John inside the house, and Victor knew exactly what would happen from there. He knew because he had done it countless times. On the counter-top, the dinner table, against the wall, against the front door. Every time he half-expected Mycroft to walk in on them, but the adrenaline had only added to the pleasure.

Victor slammed his head on the steering wheel, willing the tears to go away.

 

 

***

 

 

He giggled like schoolgirl when he saw them kiss.  _Ickle Sherly-kins wasn't such a virgin after all, was he?_ he thought gleefully. He had to admit, he was grateful the two idiots had finally stopped dancing around each other. Now that Sherlock knew what it was like to have Johnny, it would be so much more fun to tear him away from him. Jim giggled again. It really was Sherlock's fault. He chose such an  _ordinary_ plaything, it would be almost too easy to put his plan into action. _  
_

And he let John make him so unobservant, he hadn't even noticed that he had been followed the whole way home by that Trevor fellow. Jim smiled sadly. He really had hoped for a competent adversary, but it seemed that Sherlock was just as hopelessly ordinary as the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot's picking up, finally (woohoo!) sorry about the sorta cliffhanger, but actually, not sorry at all. I'll try and post again soon, but I missed two days of school, so I'm about to slammed with work (yay) so idk.
> 
> as always, leave feedback please!  
> if you wanna hang out with me on tumblr, my url is alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com
> 
> until next time, my lovelies!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi remember me? yeah, i'm still alive. i'm sosososo super sorry i haven't updated in like months, i had ACTs and schoowork, and then some other stuff, and yeah i just really wasn't up to writing. but its ok, because im back now!
> 
> enjoy and please don't hate me

"Sherlock?" John said softly, entering the boy's room. He had been let into the house by Mycroft, who took one look at him and snorted a soft "good luck." It had been two weeks since Sherlock had left his room. "Sherlock, it's John."

"John!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, his head snapping up, his eyes unnaturally bright.

"Sherlock, how long has it been since you slept?" John asked wearily. Though he asked, he really didn't want to know the answer. Sherlock, knowing this, didn't even spare him a glance; he was too engrossed in inspecting something underneath his microscope. "Sherlock, really, what are you doing? This is ridiculous! Is this still about that Carl Powers bloke? Should I be jealous?" John's lame attempt at a joke fell flat as Sherlock didn't even lift his head from his microscope. John sighed sharply, taking a seat on Sherlock's bed and pulling out a book, figuring that if he was going to be ignored he might as well do it in comfort.

"No," Sherlock said after about twenty minutes. John lifted his head from his book, looking at him blankly.

"Hmm?" he asked. He was pretty interested in the book, but he didn't think he could miss an entire conversation. He was no Sherlock, after all. Sherlock gave him his John, You're Being an Idiot look.

"You asked if you should be jealous. And the answer is 'no.' Stop being ridiculous, John. You know that," Sherlock explained as though talking to someone very young. John blinked at him.

"Sherlock, that was about twenty minutes ago," John sighed. Sherlock looked at John as though slightly worried for his mental health.

"Don't be silly, John, that was just a moment ago." John rolled his eyes, but let it go, not wanting to spend the few moments he had of Sherlock's attention to be spent on pointless bickering. He knew Sherlock would win anyway--he always did, by sheer determination (all he had to do was wait for John to give up, which usually happened fairly quickly) and what John called "unfair use of cheekbones," which Sherlock claimed was nonsense, but John was convinced he did it on purpose.

"Fine. Are you still focused on the Carl Powers thing?"

"Yes." John sighed.

"Sherlock, it's been a week since you've left your room. You haven't talked to anyone in over two weeks, including me. Lestrade's convinced that you're dead. The police said the case was closed! They don't understand why you're so convinced there was some sort of foul play, and frankly, neither do I.”

"His shoes, John, his shoes! Where are they?" John sighed again.

"Sherlock, he was swimming. I'm not sure about you do, but most people wear their shoes to go swimming," John said. Sherlock gave him a scathing look.

"John, stop being daft, it doesn't suit you. He had to wear his shoes to enter the building, didn't he? He would have left his shoes in the locker room along with all the rest of his clothes, but they aren't there! Where did they go?" Sherlock exclaimed sharply. John rubbed a hand over his face.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice soft, "fine, conduct your mad experiments or whatever you're doing, but eat something, yeah? Maybe get a few hours of sleep? Come on, what you're doing can wait just a few minutes so you can eat, right?" Sherlock barely spared him another glance before turning back to whatever he had been doing. John sighed again, turning back to his book, even though he had just reread the same paragraph six times and still had no idea what he was reading.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock suddenly whispered. John looked up from his book to see Sherlock staring at him with a strange look on his face.

"It's okay," he replied. Sherlock's lips pressed together in a thin line.

"No, it's not," he said abruptly. John looked at him blankly.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock sighed sharply, carding his fingers through his hair, unsure of how to phrase what he was thinking.

“John, I think we need to break up,” Sherlock said abruptly. John choked, half smiling, before looking at Sherlock and realizing he was serious.

“You—you’re serious?” he asked, slightly breathless.

“Do you really think I would joke about something like this?”

“Why?” John demanded. Sherlock shook his head, avoiding John’s eye.

“Many reasons, if I tried to explain them to you in full”—

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Sherlock. A few weeks ago, we were snogging in your kitchen and everything was fine, now suddenly you want to break up? What happened?”

“I don’t…feel the same way about you. What happened before was just me being…confused.” Sherlock pushed the words through gritted teeth, hating how much he was hurting John. Yet it had to be done. He couldn’t allow himself to be so emotionally attached. John exhaled in a large puff of air, eyes hard on Sherlock. After a few moments, he blinked and looked away.

"If you want to end this we can, I won't stop you. But Sherlock, please, make sure it's what you really want. I...I don't want this to end. But if you feel like it's what you need...I won't stop you." John said, squeezing the words past the lump that was currently forming in his throat. Sherlock nodded tightly, his full lips pursed. John looked at him, unable to stand it. He leaned in abruptly, pressing his lips against Sherlock's hard, one last time. "One condition," he breathed against the taller boy's lips.

"What?" Sherlock replied, his voice a low murmur.

"We stay friends, okay?”

“John, I don’t know if that’s”—

“No, Sherlock, I can't lose you. Not all of you." After a moment, Sherlock nodded, his lips brushing against John's. He leaned closer for one last kiss, before pulling away sharply, knowing that if he didn't he would never stop kissing John. Both boys looked away and pretended not to notice as they each wiped at their eyes surreptitiously. A few minutes later, John fled, unable to meet Mycroft's eyes on his way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so um. oops. i swear this was supposed to be pages of nonstop porn to make up for the fact that i can't update like EVER. but then this happened. whatever, i'll roll with it because OMG ANGST.
> 
> I'm a terrible person, i know.
> 
> i promise it'll get better soon.
> 
> don't hate me


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys have a tough time adjusting to being single.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, I'm super sorry about the late update. I don't even have a good excuse.  
> I know, I'm horrible.

“Shut up,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. He was lying face-down on his bed, where he had flung himself after John’s departure.

“I haven’t said anything,” Mycroft said from the doorway to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock pitched a spare pillow from his bed towards his brother without lifting his head. Mycroft watched calmly as it landed several feet from where he stood. After a few moments, Sherlock lifted his head, glaring at Mycroft under his mop of disheveled curls. Mycroft could see the telltale redness around Sherlock’s eyes and knew that he had been crying. He didn’t bother to mention it however, knowing Sherlock would only deny it. He didn’t want to upset him further.

“What are you still doing here?” Sherlock asked sharply. Mycroft sighed, wishing, not for the first time, that he was better at this. He could deduce everything about how his brother was feeling right now. He knew exactly why he had done what he did—obvious, really, there was never any doubt that Sherlock was madly in love with that Watson boy—yet for the life of him, he had no idea what to say or do that would make him feel better. Yet he did know someone, he thought suddenly, who would know exactly what to say and do. Though she wasn’t really supposed to be working today, Mycroft knew she wouldn’t mind. He walked away, pulling out his phone.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he said when she answered. “May I ask you a small favor?”

 

 

***

 

 

How John made it home that night, he had no idea. Though he kept trying to convince himself that he was going to be okay, that everything was fine, really, it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t see because of the tears that kept annoyingly blurring his vision. It didn’t change the fact that his hands were shaking so badly it took him seven tries to start the ignition.

Yet, he did make it home, and was relieved to see that nobody else was home. Harry had a dance recital that evening, and John had been hoping to make it home before them. He immediately made for his room and pulled the door shut, reaching into the back of his closet. His fingers closed around the cool neck of a whiskey bottle. He quickly unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and poured the contents into his mouth. He closed his eyes as the alcohol burned down his throat, dissolving the lingering feeling of Sherlock’s mouth on his own. He sat down on his bed, drinking.

When he was suitably tipsy, he picked up his phone, deciding that drinking alone was becoming too pathetic even for him. After a few tries, he managed to find Mike Stamford’s contact.

**heu mate u bsuy?**

 

_at a party with some of the rugby lads. wanna join?_

 

**whrre?**

 

_Dimmock’s place u ok?_

 

_didnt u say u were gonna be with Sherlock tonight?_

 

_John?_

 

A party. The perfect place to get wildly drunk and forget all about Sherlock and his cruel words and sharp cheekbones and perfect lips and wonderful curls.

After replacing the whiskey bottle, he grabbed his keys. His mind momentarily flicked to his health teacher, sternly telling the class to “never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, drink and drive,” but he pushed the thought away. He had barely had anything to drink, and the conversation with Sherlock playing on repeat in his head was making him feel reckless. So he shrugged into his jacket and made his way to his car. The alcohol steadied his hands, so it only took him five tries to start the car, and those pesky tears were thankfully staying away.

It took longer than it usually would have for John to find Dimmock’s house, caused by a combination of the alcohol he had already drunk, the quickly growing darkness, and the loss of an excellent—if horribly rude—navigator.

When he finally did find it, he was astonished that there was any way he had missed it before. The party was clearly in full swing. The whole street shook with the force of the bass pounding to a song that John didn’t know. The front lawn was covered in streamers, empty beer bottles, and plenty of other things John had no interest in investigating.

John parked by the other cars, knowing Sherlock would take one look around and scoff. “A party, John?” he would say. “Really? How pedestrian.” John shook his head and got out of the car. He didn’t care what Sherlock would say. Sherlock wasn’t here.

He let himself into the house, knowing that once people began to drink there was no point in trying to be polite.

“John, mate! Alright? Didn’t you say you were going to Sherlock’s tonight?” Stamford called from across the room. John merely waved in response, with a vague motion towards his ears, pretending he couldn’t hear. He seized a beer bottle from the counter, and drank it, wondering of Dimmock had anything stronger. He noticed Mike starting to make his way over to him, and he quickly turned away, searching for a familiar face that wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“John!” he heard. He looked toward the call and saw none other than Victor Trevor, leaning against the wall waving. Wondering what he wanted, John walked over to him.

“Hi Victor,” said John warily. “How are you?”

“Great! I’m so great, John,” Victor replied, gesturing largely. Taking a closer look, John could see his eyes were red and he was swaying slightly.

“Are you high?” John asked. Victor looked insulted.

“No, I’m just a little drunk,” he said. John leaned in, looking at him closer and shot him a doubtful look. “Fine, maybe a little bit high. But only on weed, I promise,” admitted Victor. John merely nodded in response.

“So what are you doing here?” he asked. Victor shrugged, grinning.

“Getting high.” John smiled in return. Even though he should be mad at Victor—should hate him—for what he did to Sherlock, at that moment, with a few too many drinks in him, he found that he didn’t. Instead, he was mad at Sherlock. At that moment, he hated everything about Sherlock. He wanted to hurt him. _It really is understandable, what Victor did_ , John thought. _He was young, and it might not have been the greatest decision, but it was understandable._

“How are you?” As an answer, John merely chugged his beer. Victor nodded, seeming to understand. They talked for a few more minutes, speech getting steadily more slurred and movements getting steadily clumsier. All of the sudden, Victor swayed on his feet, and John tried to catch him by the shoulders, but found that he was just as unsteady. The result was them both leaning heavily against the wall, faces less than an inch apart.

Without any sort of planning beforehand, or even having any sort of knowledge about what he was doing, John leaned over, pressing his lips hard against Victor’s. He stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second, before enthusiastically returning the kiss. John pushed Victor against the wall, their kiss turning fierce. His hands were in John’s hair, pulling lightly, and he scraped his teeth against Victor’s lips.

“What about Sher”— John pressed his lips against Victor’s, cutting him off. He seemed to get the idea, and didn’t try and ask again. Instead, he ran his large, calloused hands—so different from Sherlock’s—down John’s back, and grabbed his arse, pulling his groin closer to his own. John moaned into Victor’s mouth, already half-hard and feeling Victor’s own erection against his hip. Victor pulled away and grabbed John’s hand.

“Come here,” he said his voice rough, his lips swollen. Gripping John’s hand, he led them down the hall to an empty bedroom. Sparing a brief, apologetic thought to Mike, John pushed Victor on the bed, slipping his hands under Victor’s shirt. He shoved it up, pulling it off and throwing it on the ground carelessly. His hands immediately found Victor’s nipples, brushing his fingers over them, and rolling the peaks between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for the gasp of pleasure, and kicking himself mentally when it didn’t come.

Right.

That was Sherlock who was absurdly sensitive. All of the sudden, everything just felt so wrong. The tanned skin under hands, the thin lips under his own, the straight hair that was threading between his fingers. He pulled away abruptly, a look of disgust on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but I—just I can’t.” He pushed himself off of the bed, straightening his shirt to avoid Victor’s eye.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. John just shook his head, unable to answer past the lump in his throat. What had he just done? “He broke it off, didn’t he?” John glanced up at the unexpected softness in Victor’s voice.

After a few moments, he nodded once, then turned and left, fearing that if he opened his mouth to talk, he would vomit. He made his way unsteadily back to the party, grabbing a glass of water. He chugged it, but he couldn’t get the taste of Victor’s mouth off his tongue.

Suddenly, the thick atmosphere seemed suffocating. The noise was overwhelming. The putrid stink of sweat, beer, and weed was making him feel nauseas. He pushed his way to the door, breathing in the cool night air when he got outside.

He was more careful driving home—finding himself snogging his boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend having sobered him quite effectively.

Ex-boyfriend, he corrected himself, feeling like he was being punched in the gut. His ex-boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend.

When he arrived back home, his parents were home with Harry. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he worried about the way he smelled and the way he looked, but he let himself in anyway, deciding that there was only so much worse this day could get.

His parents were sitting at the kitchen table, tea set in front of them, talking quietly. He tried to slip past them without being noticed, but he tripped on his way to the hallway that led to his room. He lay there, dazed and confused.

“John?” he heard his father say worriedly. He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, telling himself the tears were from the pain of falling down. His father’s face hovered within his line of vision, creased with worry. He hated putting that look there. He wanted to jump up, say he was fine, and laugh it off. He wanted to be the John his dad thought he was.

Instead, he curled in on himself, giving a soft groan.

“Okay, come here,” his dad said, scooping him up in his arms, grunting softly.

“Tom? What’s going on?” John’s mother called from the kitchen.

“Nothing, Johnny’s just a bit sick. I’ll put him into bed, and be there in a moment,” his father replied, giving John a look that told him that even though he didn’t tell John’s mother, Tom Watson knew what was going on.

When they reached John’s bedroom, his dad gently placed him on his bed.

“You were drinking.” It wasn’t a question. John buried his face into his pillow, not wanting to talk, not wanting to see the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“No.” The word escaped him unbidden, in a sob. And with that, the tears were coming in waves that John couldn’t hold back even if he had the energy to try. His dad sat down on the bed and wrapped his arms around his son, stroking his back soothingly, and not minding that is shirt was being ruined.

“What happened?” he asked softly after a few moments. John took a deep breath, calming himself somewhat.

“Sherlock broke up with me,” he replied, his voice rough. “And I know it’s stupid—we weren’t even dating for that long, but it’s just…I thought it was going so well, you know? And I don’t understand where I went wrong. And I just feel like…he was special, you know? He was my best friend. And now I don’t know if it will be the same. So I…did something stupid tonight, and I did it because I was angry and sad, but now he’ll hate me forever.” John took a deep breath when he was done, already feeling a little bit better. His father continued to stroke his back comfortingly.

“Oh, John, I’m sorry, champ. I’m sure he wouldn’t hate you if you just explained to him why you did what you did and that you’re really sorry. And I’m sure the two of you can be friends. It might be hard, but you’re such good friends, it will be okay.” John nodded, allowing himself to be soothed. He leaned on his dad, his eyes drifting shut.

Within a few moments, he was asleep. Tom Watson stood carefully, gently placing John on his pillow and covered him with the blanket. His pressed a light kiss to his blonde hair before turning out the light and leaving, quietly closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the angst...it will get better soon, I pinky promise.


End file.
